


Helping Hand

by largoindminor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, sam is fifteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: If Dean was ornery under John’s care, he’s twice as bad when it’s Sam. Both of his arms are still pretty useless and showering’s out. He flat out refuses any kind of bathing, sponge or otherwise, for a full five days before Sam storms out of the bathroom, chucks a wet washcloth in his face and says, “You. Fucking. Stink.”The bones in Dean's chest and arms sustain serious injury during a hunt, leaving him pretty much unable to take care of himself in any way. Luckily he has Sam around to help out.





	Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, sorry for any mistakes!

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Punctured lungs, heart damage, a fractured spine, any number of fatal or debilitating injuries could have resulted from colliding with a concrete wall, especially when thrown at one at a high speed. The pain is no doubt unbearable when his bones crunch, so many of them simultaneously that he blacks out almost immediately. John is on him a second later, two dead werewolves in his wake, he scoops Dean’s limp body up in his arms like he weighs no more than a bag of salt and halls ass to the nearest emergency room.

It’s seventeen fractures in all. Three to the clavicle. Four ribs. Both radii, both ulna. Hairline to one humerus and a compound to the other. Two metacarpals each. The compound fractures require surgery _if he’s gonna want to use that arm again_ according to the physician on duty and Dean’s whisked away to some operating room before he even wakes up.

When Dean’s discharged two days later his upper body is wrapped in enough plaster to redo each wall in their motel room, which is still four towns away. It’s a long drive and Dean dozes off and on thanks to the handful of narcotics he’d swallowed as soon as he buckled up.

Sam is waiting, as always, pacing and nervous because John never calls and Sam always expects the worst, which was dangerously close to accurate this time, too. He catches a glimpse of Dean awkwardly folded into the passenger seat before the car’s even parked and he’s fuming mad, storms out toward John already yelling, hollering for all to hear, _what happened, how could you let this happen, i hate you._ Sam’s fifteen and so damn angry at everything, even at Dean, _especially_ at Dean, for letting this happen.

John sighs, gives a rudimentary explanation of what happened and the extent of Dean’s injuries, but Sam gives no response, asks no questions, just glares and chews the inside of his cheek. John looks over at Dean, still mostly asleep and oblivious, for now, to Sam’s anger. John wants to scream, or cry, or tell Sam he can’t possibly hate him more than he hates himself. Instead he sighs and goes out for a drink.

Dean’s groggy on pain meds for days. John helps him to the toilet and to bathe, and hand feeds him soup and yogurt and french fries because the casts on his arms make it impossible for Dean to do any of those things for himself. Dean hates it, even in his drugged up state he has the wherewithal to be humiliated, and as a result, ornery. Sam still goes to school every day, comes home slamming the door and huffing under his breath about _this goddamn town_ and _can’t wait to get away from here._ Even _he’s_ not sure if it’s just the town he wants to run away from.

Sam’s out of luck, though, ‘cause John’s decided they’re not going anywhere until Dean’s better. And by _they_ he means _Sam and Dean_ , because as soon as Dean can stand up and hobble to take a piss solo (sitting down of course), John skips town for a hunt two states over. John doesn’t tell them it’s a lead on the demon, that he’s just leaving them there to keep them safe, because that conversation opens up the floor to questions he’s not ready to answer. So he leaves Sam with a wad of twenties big enough to clog a toilet, and a _take care of each other_ and _I'll_ _be in touch_ and he’s off. Sam won’t look him in the eye and John almost folds. Almost, but what the hell. The boy already hates him, what’s a  little bit more, in the grand scheme of things.

If Dean was ornery under John’s care, he’s twice as bad when it’s Sam. Both of his arms are still pretty useless and showering’s out. He flat out refuses any kind of bathing, sponge or otherwise, for a full five days before Sam storms out of the bathroom, chucks a wet washcloth in his face and says, “ _You. Fucking. Stink.”_

Dean’s face turns a deep angry red, jaw clenched, and he contemplates whether or not he could level Sam to the ground without the use of his arms. He would have tried, too, if Sam weren’t so fucking _right._ God, does he stink to high heaven.

Things get a little better after that. It’s not even as bad as he’d expected. Sam just scrubs under his arms and loads up each pit with about half a stick of Old Spice. Sam even asks him, nicely, if he needs any help with the other end of things, but Dean’s tolerance only goes so far, and it’s a hard stop at _getting his ass wiped by his kid brother._ That, he’d actually worked out a system for, using the tub. Takes fifteen fucking minutes and is uncomfortable as all hell and probably not at all good for the motel's dingy white washcloths, but at least his bottom is clean. Getting in and out of his shorts is a hassle, too, but with the aid of some plastic claw grippers from the dollar store, he manages. 

It’s about ten days and three sponge baths (not that they’re calling them that) later that Dean wakes up with a raging hard on for the first time since the accident. He glances over at the clock, it’s six in the morning and still dark, Sam’s snoring away in the next bed and Dean smiles and goes to slip a hand down his boxers before he remembers that he _can’t._ Can’t reach, can’t touch, _remember dumbass that’s why you’ve been sitting down to pee for three weeks._ So he lies there, frustrated. Wills it away, thinks of every unsexy thing he can until his wide-awake dick decides to go back to sleep. It takes an hour.

Sam’s helping him eat a burger a few days later when it happens again. It’s a good burger, really good, with bacon and fried onions and some kind of tangy barbecue sauce and frankly too messy for one person to be trying to feed to another. By the time he’s done, there’s drips of sauce and grease all over his lap and Sam cracks a joke, _shit we should get you a bib_ , and grabs a towel to clean up, dabbing an blotting and rubbing. It’s the fucking rubbing that does it. Doesn’t mean anything, it’s just friction, but damn is it good friction, and it’s been _ages,_ and Dean lets his eyes slip shut, forgets where he is for a second until Sam’s startled, whispered "shit," brings him out of it. Dean opens his eyes and Sam’s stopped moving, eyes wide and staring at Dean’s lap, free from all traces of barbecue sauce but sporting a pretty noticeable semi.

Dean groans, because how fucking frustrating is this, and how humiliating, to boot? He clears his throat and tries to think of the most nonchalant thing in the world to say but falls short. He settles on _,_ "it's been a while?" and a shrug. He wants to get up, excuse himself to the bathroom where he can kill himself in peace, but something about the way Sam’s eyes are fixed on him glues him in place. Suddenly Dean’s all too aware of how warm it is, of how close Sam is sitting to him, of how the sweat on Sam’s upper lip clings to his burgeoning stubble like dew on a spiderweb, of how hard he’s trying not to think about how salty it would taste.

“I could, uh…” Sam says, and Dean’s brain goes blank for a second because _You could what, Sammy? Oh shit, what?_

“I mean, I could get a girl, a- a hooker or something, bring her back here.” Sam doesn’t know where to get a hooker, or any kind of girl, no fucking clue, but he has to say something, _something_ to deter from the fact that he’s been staring at his brother’s half-mast dick for a full two minutes straight without speaking.

It’s actually not a bad idea, not the hooker part, but Dean thinks he can probably score some serious sympathy tail at one of these local bars if he tries. But no, not really, because he can’t drive there, and he shouldn’t leave Sam here alone, and he’s never been one to go for a pity fuck, anyway.

The awkwardness and the boner pass, eventually. They don’t talk about it. Dean continues to be on edge and irritable, but it could just be cabin fever.

It’s a lazy Saturday when Sam leans in and sniffs the air about two feet in front of him, “Time for another army bath, dude, you’re rank _._ ”

It’s true, he is indeed. Not only that, his hair is matted and oily as well, no amount of dry shampoo could do the job at this point.

It’s ok at first, like going to the hair salon. Sam drags a chair up against the shower, which thankfully has a wand attachment, and Dean leans back over the drain. The motel’s shampoo smells nice, like Hawaiian Tropic or coconut cream pie and Sam works up a nice rich lather, scraping his fingers over Dean’s scalp and around his ears until his head feels tingly. Then, suddenly, it’s not like a salon at all. It’s too close, too much contact, and when Dean closes his eyes and sighs into Sam’s touch a shiver goes through his body. Dean’s practically naked, just a pair of boxers for modesty and Sam can tell, can see, the exact moment the shiver reaches Dean’s dick. Sam rinses the suds from Dean’s hair, trying but failing not to look at the growing bulge between Dean’ legs.

“Uh, s’all done,” Sam squeaks and Dean sits up. Sam grabs the nearest towel and drapes it over Dean’s head. Dean’s legs are straight out and spread wide and Sam slips right in between them to dry his hair, his knee brushing the milky smooth inside of Dean’s thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but Sam’s chewing his lip raw, eyes darting between the crown of Dean’s head and the heat of his lap. _I can help you with that_ he’s aching to say, but instead he drops the towel to the floor and takes a step back.

Dean looks up at him, dazed and flushed pink, silent for a long time except for his deep breaths and pounding heart. “Thanks,” he croaks out, and Sam turns and leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Sam’s in bed asleep by the time Dean leaves the bathroom, still flushed and flustered but erection-free.

Sam wakes up to the sounds of rustling across the room, It’s dark, maybe 2am, but the flicker from the motel’s fluorescent sign shines through the flimsy curtains enough for him to make out the shape of his brother in the next bed. Dean’s on his stomach, face turned away from Sam who can only wonder if his brothers is awake or in the midst of an intense dream. Wonder, that is, until his eyes adjust a bit more and he _sees._ Dean’s managed to shimmy his boxers down just a bit, and his arms are out to his sides with his palms pushing against the bedspread for leverage (it must hurt) as he frantically ruts up against the bed, hips pumping, spine bending so beautifully it’s easy to imagine some sweet willing body is obscured beneath him.

There’s no one, of course, just Dean and the scratchy motel sheets and Sam watching, spying like some kind of peeping tom.

 _It’s not going to be enough_ , Sam thinks, drinking in the lip bitten whines too pretty to be wasted and muffled in the pillow between Dean’s teeth. Sam’s done this before, in empty motel rooms, hot and sticky with the covers pulled all the way up even though there was no one around to see. It’s not enough to get you off. Maddening and mind-numbingly good, but only enough to get you _almost_ there.

Sam’s own arousal grows in response to Dean’s. His frustration, too, his aching, burning need.

“Dean?” It’s barely a whisper but Dean stops dead in his tracks, frozen with hips hovering just above the bed, for ages, _hours_ it feels like and Sam prays _don’t leave_ and _let me._ The pressure between Sam’s legs is building and he presses his palm firmly over his cock, gasps low and quick at the sensation. The small sound, all but thunderous in the pin-drop quiet between them is all it takes to spur Dean on again, his hips roll down and thrust up and he moans long and guttural, in relief or frustration or both, and turns his head.

Sam can see his pink cheeks now, his sweaty forehead and puffy bitten-red lips.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, racked and dry and pleading, too far gone on arousal to stop this from happening.

“Let me,” is all Sam can manage to say, and he’s up and crossing the distance between their beds.

Dean drops his face into the pillow, his last stalwart attempt to hide from what is about to happen, what has _been_ happening.

But then Sam’s on him, gentle and tentative at first, he runs a finger down Dean’s dripping wet back. Then rough, forceful, manhandling Dean until he can get him to flip over.

Dean’s cock is beautiful. As long and thick as Sam expected, based on it’s silhouette under Dean’s threadbare boxers earlier, the head a deep glistening red to match his lips. Sam straddles Dean’s knees, his own cock barely constrained by his own threadbare boxers.

He touches lightly at first, a fingertip trailing the fat vein underneath, starting at the base and swirling over the tip before making its way back down again, smearing the copious pre-come along the way. Dean’s so close, it won’t take long at all to get him off, which is a shame, really, because Sam wants to draw this out forever.

Sam knows it’s cruel, to delay Dean’s gratification after it’s already been so very long, but he can’t help it. He studies Dean, still lazily stroking up and down with his finger, takes in everything he can, the sight, the sounds, the smells, and stores them for later. Dean’s eyes are closed, pinched shut. His head turns side to side, his hips squirm- minutely, as Sam is currently weighing them down- but wanton. His teeth dig deep into his bottom lip, and Sam wonders if he would beg, if Sam waits long enough, wonders how long it’s already been, Dean rutting up against the lumpy mattress, edging himself, before Sam woke up.

Dean’s nipples are pebbled and hard, perfectly rosy against the pale pink flush of his chest and Sam rakes his fingers lightly over one, letting his blunt nails catch and drag over the peak. Dean’s cock jerks under Sam’s light touch, another blurt of pre-come dripping onto his stomach.

“Please, please,” Dean whines, still refusing to open his eyes. And yes, there it is, the _begging_. It's a nice start, but Sam wants more.

He rubs his thumb in lazy circles over the nipple, and leans down, taking care to avoid putting any additional pressure on Dean’s cock, and takes the other one in his mouth.

The room is warm, but Dean’s skin is sweat cooled and sticky and Sam sucks at it, hard and then gentle, flicks his tongue in light touches over the sensitive skin, gently scraping his teeth, thumb still toying with the other nipple just like he’s seen men do to big breasted women in those pay-per-view pornos he’s not old enough to watch. He wasn’t sure if a guy would like it, if Dean would like it, as much as those girls seem to, but the moans and aborted, needful little pumps of his hips indicate he does.

“Please,” Dean says again, he head bent so the word is spoken into the top of Sam’s head, and Sam’s emboldened by the way Dean’s body shivers under his.

“Please what?” He asks into Dean’s skin.

“Need… need to- oh god, need to come. Sam. Fuck, Sam, need you to help. Make me come, fuck baby please, need you to…”

His words are stilted at first but once he says it, “Sam”, a word he’s said probably more than any other, but never quite like this, it’s like a dam bursts, and Dean’s babbling and begging and saying it again and again “Sam” and “baby” and “fuck”.

Sam flushes hot when Dean breaks, when he begs, _oh fuck_ , when he calls him _baby_.

Sam sits back up and wraps his hand around Dean’s cock with single minded determination. Three long firm strokes and Dean’s body goes taut, back arching off the bed, hips pumping up as his dick pulses hot and messy all over Sam’s fist.

Dean flips back flat onto the bed and looses a long groan of relief. His body still shakes a little, his abdomen quivers from the intensity of his long-delayed orgasm as little aftershocks rock through his body.

Sam’s sits back on Dean’s legs, watching Dean’s body tremor and glisten and relax, and absently rubbing the head of his own cock. Without thinking, he brings a messy come coated finger up to his mouth to taste.

“Fuck that’s hot,” Dean says as Sam slips the finger into his own mouth and sucks, “now you. Lemme… lemme see.”

Dean’s eyes flick down to Sam’s crotch, licks his lips in anticipation, and his arms twitch up a little before the cast restricts his movement, his urge to touch palpable.

Sam pulls the elastic of his shorts down and stretches it under his cock and balls. The first touch of his hand to his bare cock causes his whole body to jolt, and he strokes himself hard and fast, watching Dean watch him.

“That’s right, Sammy,” Dean says, “lemme see you now. God just give it to me. Fuck, wish that was my hand on you.”

“Dean,” Sam whines, it’s too much, Dean’s dirty mouth, Dean watching him like that, god, the taste of Dean’s come on his tongue. His balls tighten as the heat in his spine begins to grow and spread, orgasm inevitable.

“Yeah baby. You close? You gonna come? Fuck Sam, you gonna come on me?” Dean’s voice edged with a hint of astonishment at this.  

Sam does come, right then, right when Dean says it, right on Dean’s sweat and come drenched stomach. He’s dizzy from it, falls forward onto Dean’s chest, managing to remember to slow himself just enough with his arms so as to not cause too much pain to the still healing ribs beneath him, even while his dick is still blurting out the last of his release into the crease of Dean’s groin.

“Dean?” Sam asks some time later in the still dark room, “you know, whenever. I mean, whenever you need help again. Until your casts come off anyway. I can. Uh. Yeah.”

Dean lets out a small huff, his voice quieter and much less confident than it had been just a short while earlier, “And what about when the casts come off?”

Sam’s heart stutters, both at Dean’s words and his vulnerable tone. He knows that should be the end of it, the casts coming off. That helping his brother in his time of need and, well, hooking up with his brother because, god damn, he wants to, are two very different things. But he looks at Dean’s body, bruised and bandaged though it shouldn’t be. Looks at their lives and all the unfairness that shouldn’t be. At the misery of all that isn’t each other. And he doesn’t care what _should_ be. He only cares about this.

“Well then maybe you can, uh, help me, too?” There’s a bit of little brother smirk in his voice, and a little bit of sultriness, too, or so he tries.

Dean’s quiet for a minute and Sam wonders if he’s taking stock of the “shoulds” in their lives, too, or wrestling with something deeper.

“It’s only fair,” he answers, eventually. And hell if that isn’t pretty damn accurate.

**Author's Note:**

> comments = love!


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